


Equilibrium

by Emma_Please



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Creature Stiles, Dragon Stiles Stilinski, Gen, M/M, Male femal it don't matter, Multi, One Shot, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sheriff Stilinski Knows, different characters - Freeform, everyone is awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 22:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13867239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Please/pseuds/Emma_Please
Summary: There's smoke in his lungs and fire beneath his skin but Stiles can't seem to make himself mind.Or a series of one-shots about Stiles being different creatures. I'll take suggestions if you want.





	Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should probably update my other story and I will trust me, I've already gotten a chapter done. This came to me randomly but I've always been interested in portraying Stiles as different creatures considering it would be interesting. I'll see where this goes. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf

There’s smoke in his lungs and fire burning deep in his stomach. When Stiles wakes up the pantomime pains linger, demanding his attention with merciless force. He feels restless and uneasy, and any glint or shine makes his hands ache.

There’s a dull throbbing at the base of his neck and Stiles thinks he might be getting a headache. Lydia snaps her fingers in front of him and demands he pay attention. Her words resonate in his skull and Stiles' eyes the walls blearily before looking down at his hands.

It’s a mistake to do so. His fingernails sharpen, growing darker, looking almost like ivory. Hands that were once pale and mole-doted warp, and Stiles feels acute pain rush through him as his hands rip themselves apart and harden, like leather.

I’m dreaming, he thinks. I must be.

Lydia snaps her fingers again. “Stiles, pay attention.” Though her words are sharp, there’s a tinge of worry there.

When he looks up, Lydia is still sitting beside him, lips pursed and still as pretty as ever. When he looks down at his hands they’re normal.

The pain is still there, though, and Stiles clutches them. 

* * *

  
The same thing happens tomorrow. And the day after that.

Days turn into weeks and Stiles’ lucidness seems to vanish as if it were never there in the first place. The lines holding reality blur together and the smoke clogging his lungs grows heavier.

Nowadays, his body always feels too hot, as if the burning beneath his skin is leaking out. He’s running out of layers of skin, Stiles thinks luridly one day, and that isn’t a good thing.

He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, especially not Derek or Cora or even Peter. They all flinch at the mention or feeling of fire. There’s no need to bring up past trauma- not after they’ve come so far.

It doesn’t register to him that the heat is only inside, only felt by him as it blazes along the inner lining of his muscles.

Stiles goes to school the next day and listens as the teacher garbles out something- words flow through one ear and out the other. His brain isn’t picking anything up, preferring to discard it to the side in favor of staring at the teacher’s golden pen.

It sits inconspicuously on the desk at the front of the class and for a split second, Stiles thinks he hears a voice whisper about the loveliness of such a smooth, golden pen; which is ridiculous because no one is paying him any mind, apart from Scott.

Scott is just peering at him from his peripheral vision, not even pretending to be subtle because he knows Stiles will catch on anyways. They’ve known each other for far too long to be obliviousness to one another.

I really want that pen, Stiles muses dreamily. It’s a very pretty pen.

Although it holds no value to him, Stiles nick it as he’s walking out. The cool slide of metal as it rests against his arm is tantalizing. Neither the teacher nor anybody else notices, but Stiles isn’t particularly worried about being caught.

A pen is a pen- there are millions of pens out there for the taking. Stiles just happens to like this one and thus it’s his.

Scott catches up with him at lunch, plopping down next to him with little grace.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Mhmm,” Hums Stiles, twirling the pretty golden pen between his fingers underneath the table. “I feel fine, Scott. There’s no need to worry.”

Scott doesn’t believe him and Stiles can tell he’s looking for a lie. There is no lie, however, because Stiles is being honest. The fire blazing beneath his skin has settled and the smoke in his lungs has lightened. There is no phantom pain tearing him apart.

Strange, yes, but undoubtedly a welcome relief. You won’t find a blip in my heart, Scottie boy, ‘cause I’m as happy as can be.

I’ve got my pen so I’m alright. _All I need is my pen and I’ll be alright._

The jaunty tune in his head ascends and Stiles bops his head slightly, ducking his head to push around his food. 

* * *

  
A few weeks later Stiles has a trove under his bed, filled with shiny knick-knacks that he’s either found or stolen. The previous golden pen, some of his father’s bullets, his mother’s old jewelry that’s been rotting in the attic, a cuff-link from a suit they’d forced Derek into, and a multitude of other things that Stiles had picked up.

With each item taken the pain lessens, not so harshly pulling at his skin, stretching and tearing. There is still smoke in his lungs- Stiles knows it will never go away- and the fire beneath his skin is a familiar burn he’s become used to.

Life goes on as normal; they still fight monsters, they still hang out, they still go to school and get on with life. Stiles still annoys Derek, and Peter still leers at the two of them, as if he knows about the kisses and heated looks. Cora still vanishes sometimes only to reappear weeks later with souvenirs.

Nothing really has changed because Stiles keeps his fascination with shiny things a secret. They hold no monetary joy for him, but when he sets eyes on something he wants, his hands itch and the fire heats up a notch, as if to say ‘Go on, Stiles. You know you want to.’

If he tells anyone about this, they’ll worry needlessly- Scott will insist on Deaton, Derek will insist on trapping Stiles inside the house and who knows what the other’s would do. Deaton, who Stiles is still leery of, will drown him in old tomes written in Latin.

Stiles is better off on his own with this. Besides, it’s not as if this is a problem. Burning and smoke aside, as well as the occasional dream-like quality Stiles will fall into, he feels fine. Of course, he still sees his skin ripping itself apart and his nails sharpening, but Stiles has learned to brush that off, to ignore it and act as if his hands are pale and veiny, just as they’ve always been.

No one needs to know that some days Stiles’ own mind turns against him, showing him the disfiguration his body will go through one day- soon.

It all comes to head when they manage to piss off a summer sprite that doesn’t take too kindly to being trapped.

The sheriff is out for the day, working his job as he should be, and Stiles is home alone when the house caves in.

He knows what’s happening even before it does. The fire within him explodes as if responding to a warrior cry from its own kind. The stifling heat gets hotter and hotter, but it isn’t the heat that’s getting to Stiles.

No, he likes the heat, but he’s stuck in place. The lines of reality blur and the agonizing pain of being ripped apart begins again. Stiles screams, clutching at his arms, tearing at the dry leather feeling his skin becomes. He keeps screaming, throat hoarse because he can’t seem to make himself stop and all he can think is ‘my treasure, stay with the treasure!’

Stiles drags himself off the bed, gasping in pain and scratching at his face and arms and any part of his body he comes across. The snarl on his face feels foreign but Stiles doesn’t dwell on it until he’s beneath his bed, curled around his treasure trove, not unlike a parent curls around their baby to protect.

Now he waits, deaf to the sound of his home blazing into an inferno around him as it falls to shambles. 

* * *

  
Noah Stilinski gets the car and shows up to all of Stiles is friends outside his burning house. He pays them no mind, running past the crowd and towards the house before a firefighter intercepts him, slamming into him to stop him.   
“Sir, you can’t go in there-“

“This is my house! My son is in there, let me through!”

There is no rational thought in his actions but all Noah can think about is his son, burning alive, all alone. He thinks about how he’s lost both his wife and his son.

Stiles is dead, Noah thinks because it’s too late and now all we have left is the final bit of the show to watch.

Three hours later the fire is put out and the people clear out- everyone but Stiles’ friends. They all stare at the house before one of the girls- Cora, Noah thinks dully- storms into the wreckage of the house and starts tearing through it. Her face is set into a grim visage and no one tells her to stop.

Derek joins in and then so does everyone else. Scott stays next to Noah, crouched down and blatant in his grief. His shoulders shake in repressed sobs, if only for Noah’s sake, and it’s enough to make Noah put a hand on his shoulder.

“Guys,” Kira calls out, swaying in shock. “Come here and see this.”

Noah gets to his feet and wipes a rough hand over his eyes while Scott follows him. They’re the last ones to reach Kira and therefore they witness as each of the packs faces whiten or slack in disbelief.

It’s Stiles. Noah stumbles, reaching out. It’s Stiles, with soft brown scales jutting from his back. Cradled in his arms are shiny pieces of metal that Noah is surprised haven’t melted. The bat-like wings that quiver around them must have something to do with that, though.

It’s Stiles and at the same time not really. Noah isn’t picky, however, because his son is alive and well- he just also happens to look like something out of a fantasy novel. 


End file.
